


I Want Peace

by princessofmind



Series: That boy is a problem [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3772354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessofmind/pseuds/princessofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I shouldn’t be the one telling you this,” she says, and you don’t <i>want</i> to know more.  He broke your heart, tossed you out like one of his boy toys, and he’s the first person you’ve ever loved like this.  It wasn’t supposed to go like this, and you just want to put your head down and forget the smell of his cologne or the feel of his hair under your fingertips, or the way he laughs and the way his smile hurts so good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Roxy is waiting for you, smacking her gum and blowing perfectly round, pink bubbles as big as her face that somehow, miraculously, don’t stick to her nose or hair when they pop. People are staring at her, because she’s still in her uniform, her Prada bag slung over her shoulder and a look of almost disdainful boredom on her face as she waits. It should surprise you, but at this point, it really doesn’t. You just wish she wasn’t here.

As soon as you shoulder your way out the door, she’s on you, the perpetual smile worryingly absent from her face as she falls easily into step with you.

“We need to have a conversation,” she says.

“Fuck off,” you reply.

And that’s pretty obviously what she’s expecting, and you wonder just how much similar vitriol she’s had to stomach from…well, you know who. “Okay, sorry. We’re _going_ to have a conversation. Didn’t mean to make it sound like a suggestion, since it isn’t.”

And that’s how you end up at Starbucks, drinking iced coffee while Roxy sucks down a mocha chocolate chip frappuccino.

“What happened?” she asks, after an appropriate amount of time has passed. “With Eridan.”

Like she needed to clarify. “I don’t want to talk about it,” you say, moving your little plastic cup so that the drink swirls inside. “And I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

“It’s my fucking business because I’ve been looking after his sorry ass since we were middle schoolers,” she snaps, and the genuine anger there surprises you enough to actually get a good look at her. She looks the same, of course she does, because her make-up is impeccable. But there’s a more caked-on look there, like she’s trying to cover up her exhaustion, her stress, and her worry.

You wish you could do the same to yourself, because you know you look like shit.

“I don’t _know_ , okay?” Running your fingers through your greasy hair, you look out the window, at the baristas, at the middle-aged woman with her three children, anything but her. “Things were fine. Everything was normal. But then he came to my school, and we fucked in the shower, and he said he didn’t want to see me anymore.”

The look she’s giving you is deep, soul searching, like she’s trying to look under your skin and see the patterns and rivers of your veins. And you wonder how much she can see, if it’s so obvious how empty you are without those texts or the lingering taste of cigarettes and peppermint on your lips. You miss him, you miss him like a missing limb, like a child misses the sweetness of half-truths and white lies that make the world seem filled with magic and wonder. And maybe this is what it’s like to be an addict, because he wasn’t good for you, was never good for you, but you didn’t _care_ , just wanted him so badly that you would do anything for him, whatever he asked, without question.

Anything, except refuse to love him, apparently.

“I shouldn’t be the one telling you this,” she says, bringing one perfectly manicured finger to her mouth and chewing on the cuticle. “Fucking _shit_ , Eridan. He should be having this conversation, like a normal, functioning human being. But since he’s more self-destructive than anything, I guess I will.”

Maybe you should stop her, but underneath all the hurt, there’s also bitterness. You don’t _want_ to know more. He broke your heart, tossed you out like one of his boy toys, and he’s the first person you’ve ever loved like this. It wasn’t supposed to go like this, and you just want to put your head down and forget the smell of his cologne or the feel of his hair under your fingertips, or the way he laughs and the way his smile hurts so good.

“His parents died, when he was little. Car crash, with a semi that ran a red light. They didn’t stand a fucking chance, and if I remember, he was only like, seven at the time. His brother Cronus inherited everything, since he was like…twenty-something, and that included Eridan. He was old enough to take custody, and since there’s no grandparents or anything, it was either that or foster care. But Cronus is a shitty big brother, and an even worse parent, and…” she bites her lip, looking hard at the table, “I don’t have any _proof_. He won’t fucking _talk_ to me.”

The coffee in your mouth tastes like bile.

“I _know_ Cronus beats him. Beats the _shit_ out of him. But they’re family, and Eridan is so fiercely loyal to the only family he has left, he won’t say a thing. And the asshole knows not to hit his face, keeps it under the clothes and all that, and it’s been almost ten years since he moved in with his brother and I just.”

You were really, really hoping she wouldn’t start to cry, but there are tears on her face and she’s obviously trying so hard to keep it together.

“I’m not asking you to fix him,” she says, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “It doesn’t work like that. He’s not a _project_ or some bullshit, but he’s so twisted up and backwards and scared, and I know you care about him just as much as I do. Why else would you have put up with his shit for as long as you did?”

“That doesn’t excuse him using me as his personal fuck toy,” you spit out. “It’s not fair for him to use me to run from his problems and then just drop me when he decides he’s had enough.”

“You’re right, it’s not. It’s bullshit, and I think you need to tell him that.” Her bag makes a loud noise when it hits the table because it’s so fucking big, but from within, she removes a heart-shaped sticky note with an address on it. “Cronus is away on business. There aren’t any parties tonight for him to get black-out drunk at, so. Go.”

The paper feels heavy in your hand.

You go.


	2. Chapter 2

Eridan’s apartment complex is so nice, you’re afraid that the doorman is going to throw you out. But he doesn’t say anything (maybe Roxy warned him), and you slip past into the mirrored elevator, heart beating in your throat as you go up to the top floor. The penthouse. Of fucking course.

Your nerves nearly fail you, as you walk out into the little foyer area, the door staring you down in all it’s rich, well-polished glory, and you wonder what it is you’re hoping to accomplish. You’re shit with people, you always have been, and relationships and all their bullshit has never been something you’re much interested in. Eridan has given you more hell than anyone, and yet here you are, chewing the inside of your cheek until it bleeds.

What could you, a grungy, scraggly shut-in who has more affection for WoW than actual human beings, offer him?

The sound of your knuckles against the door rings out through the empty space, and when he opens the door, you’re struck by how small and vulnerable he looks. Instead of his immaculate uniform, he’s in sweat-pants and a too-big shirt, his hair loose and curling where it’s swept back out of his eyes. It makes him look human, like he’s not larger-than-life and in charge. He looks like someone who lost their parents and lives in fear of their brother, who’s so emotionally constipated that he can’t even see straight.

“Roxy,” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose and slumping against the door frame. “I’m going to fucking kill her.”

“Hey, I wasn’t exactly thrilled to see her,” you say honestly, because that thorn in your heart still hurts, and the bitterness still clings to the back of your tongue.

“What do you want?” he says, exhausted, worn so thin and brittle he’s on the verge of breaking.

“You’re a dick,” you say, which clearly isn’t the begging, lovestruck speech he was expecting. “You never, ever gave me the impression that this was a serious, exclusive thing. So you were sleeping with other people on the side, whatever. But you treated me like I was _special_ and sought me out, and when I would ask you about your life or how you were doing, you never once told me to fuck off. So _fuck_ you for not liking that I got attached, because how could I _not_?”

His lip is between his teeth, his gaze firmly on your ratty shoes. “I never asked-“

“For me to fall in love with you? Well, I have bad news for you. I do. Eridan Ampora, you’re an asshole and you mistreated me and I still love you. Them’s the breaks.”

“ _Why_?” he asks, which isn’t quite what you were expecting. “I’ve never given you a reason to.”

That’s…actually a pretty good question, but ever since that day when he walked out on you, you’ve been dissecting yourself, picking your brain apart to try and figure out why you care so deeply. “I feel like…like there’s this hole. Every time I hold you or kiss you or talk to you, there’s this hesitation, like you want something so bad but you’re scared to take it. It breaks my fucking heart, and I…I want to fill that hole, if I can. And if I don’t fit, then I’d at least like to fill what I can.”

He’s beautiful, heartbreakingly beautiful, with these sad, blue eyes and chapped lips and a body that’s thin from drinking too much and eating too little. When you meet him at parties, or sneak into his school, you fuck fast and dirty, but he clings to you in the aftermath like _this_ was what he really wanted, the arms around him, the lips pressed to his hair, the steady rhythm of your breathing.

“You don’t have to love me back,” you say eventually, when his silence is almost physically painful. “And you’re allowed to say no. And it doesn’t even have to be _me_. But you deserve to be loved.”

“I _want_ it to be you,” he croaks, fingernails digging into his palms and his eyes glazed behind his glasses. “But you don’t. I’m not.”

The protests are weak, and he’s shaking so badly that you’re pretty sure the doorframe is the only thing holding him up. When you open your arms, he falls against you like a wave, clutching your shirt and making these soft, pained snuffling noises, like he’s cried silently, in the dark, alone, for too long and doesn’t know what to do now that someone is here.

His head fits perfectly under your chin, and even though his hair is unwashed and smells like cheap liquor and stale smoke, you rest your cheek against his head and squeeze him tight until you swear his ribcage must be aching. But if anything, it just makes him burrow closer, hiding like he always does, but he’s hiding in _you_. It’s progress.

The apartment is grand and lavish, but you don’t pay attention to it. He leads you into his room, to his bed, and his tearstained glasses end up on the floor with your shoes, but his comforter is like a cloud, cradling both your bodies as you curl up there, you flat on your back and him curled against you, his head on your chest and his fingers wrapped tightly in yours. Breathing in deep, he lets his breath out slowly, the sound of your heart under his ear clearly soothing some deep, primal need for comfort, for a reminder that he isn’t alone in his bed.

And you stroke his hair, playing with the faded purple streak and combing the messy strands back out of his face. Even though his eyes are red and his face is stained with tear tracks and you can see a purpling bruise underneath the collar of his loose fitting shirt, it’s the most relaxed, at peace, you’ve ever seen him.

It’s beautiful. More beautiful than the cardigans and scarves and tight jeans, because it’s _real_.

There are no promises spoken, because it’s too soon, too raw. There are no labels, because you think it would scare him, to immediately start making demands and sectioning things out before his tears have even completely dried. The sight of that bruise makes your stomach clench and your blood boil, but you don’t say anything about that either. You’re both quiet, just breathing, just laying there, looking up at the ornate plaster work on the ceiling of his bedroom and moving from his hair to the back of his neck, stroking the warm skin as his breathing evens and his grip on your hand starts to go limp.

Sure, it’s not perfect. It’s not much. But more than anything, it’s a _start_.

And you’re okay with that.


End file.
